


Feral

by Lokaal



Series: Trust [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, M/M, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8494039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokaal/pseuds/Lokaal
Summary: On the voyage from Flotsam to Vergen, Geralt toys with a certain dangerous elf.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write with these two for a while, and the situation popped into my head the other day and I couldn't resist. Enjoy!

The river barge’s aft stern became Geralt’s place of choice to spend the days. Watching the frigid water roll and churn in the ship’s wake was almost as peaceful as meditating. Rivers weren’t like the sea; there were no dangerous swells or heavy, salty air. The skies were mostly clear and the air fresh, untainted by cities or foliage. 

He heard the footfalls long before he saw who they belonged to. Geralt knew the confident, slow gait and didn’t start when Iorveth first spoke. “Burns troubling you, Gwynbleidd?” 

Geralt spared a glance for his bandaged hands and forearms, resting on the barge’s wooden railing. The flesh was healing quickly, aided by balms and poultices. The worst part of it now wasn’t the dull ache, but the _itching_. A reasonable price though, as far as Geralt was concerned, for saving the Elfish women in Flotsam. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” 

Iorveth accepted the answer with a grunt. He leaned against the railing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest as he scanned the water and lands behind them. He always kept Geralt in sight of his single good eye, and this hadn’t gone unnoticed by Geralt. Whether Iorveth did so out of instinct or purpose, he wasn’t sure. Whatever the case, Geralt suddenly had the compulsion to press the matter. “Still don’t trust me, do you, Iorveth?” 

“You’re dh’oine.” 

Geralt resisted the urge to scoff. “I’m not human.” 

“Do you claim to be Aen Seidhe?” Iorveth snorted. 

“No.” 

“Then tell me, what are you?” 

“A witcher,” Geralt answered with a shrug. It was a common enough misunderstanding that was beginning to grate him. “We’re neutral for a reason.” 

“And yet you picked a side. You chose to help me over that bastard Vernon Roche,” Iorveth spat the name with as much contempt as you would expect from enemies of their fame. 

“Here I was, thinking that you’d be grateful.” 

Iorveth cocked his chin, glancing at Geralt. “I am grateful, _witcher_ , especially for going to the aid of our women. At a cost to yourself, no less.” 

Geralt shrugged again. “Just another set of scars.” 

“Nevertheless, thank you.” 

He knew he was going to ruin whatever sort of _moment_ they were having, but a smirk tugged at Geralt’s mouth. “Are you actually being civil?” 

Iorveth made a sound in the back of his throat, a sort of reluctant agreement. 

“You know who else are being civil?” Geralt continued. “Your scoia’tael.” They had been much less cagey and suspicious of him and Dandelion in their days since leaving Flotsam. He wondered if it was a result of Geralt’s actions or Iorveth’s influence. 

Much to Geralt’s brief surprise, Iorveth chuckled. “They respect you, now. Most of them.” 

“And you?” 

Iorveth shot him a knowing look. “Like I said, you have done much to help us.” 

“That’s not really an answer.” 

Taking a deep breath in, Iorveth stepped back from the railing. “I will leave you to enjoy the air, Gwynbleidd, and appreciate how much better it is compared to the sinking filth of dh’oine cities.” 

He was evading the question, but Geralt let him go. Trying to get a confession of any sort from Iorveth would be like taking a feather from a live harpy –you’re just asking to wind up blind and bloody.

***

That evening, Geralt had the uncomfortable task of changing the bandages wrapping his burnt flesh. The worst of the burns were around his wrists, making it difficult to successfully bind. Dandelion had offered to help, but Geralt turned it down. He had a small hunch about something, and he was willing to put up with the hassle of doing this alone if it didn’t pay off. It wouldn’t take him long if he really tried, but he was delaying on purpose.

An abrupt knocking on the cabin’s door proved that his hunch may be right. Geralt stayed where he was, sitting against the cabin’s single bed pallet with his pouch of herbs and supplies beside him. The river barge had few cabins, and Geralt had been allowed to take one of them. Dandelion took another, and the ship’s captain had the last –the scoia’tael slept everywhere else below deck, seemingly unconcerned by it. It was dry, they had food and blankets: it was probably all they cared about after the conditions they were used to. 

Iorveth opened the cabin’s door when Geralt didn’t answer. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, taking the sight in, then entered and firmly closed the door. He didn’t close the handful of steps between them, however, instead staying where he was and glowering down at Geralt in the scant candle light. It seemed to be a challenge, and he refused to speak. 

It was Geralt who gave in, more than a little amused. “Dandelion told on me.” 

“He was concerned, and rightfully so.” 

“When since have you two been my sitters?” 

Iorveth snorted. “Don’t call me that again. But, you were injured.” 

“Believe me when I say I’ve lived through worse. Besides, what do you know of medicine?” 

“I know enough to survive.” He crossed the small cabin in a few strides, then crouched in front of Geralt. As guessed, the sorry state of the bandages made Iorveth sigh and he removed his gloves. After tossing them onto the wooden floor boards, Iorveth roughly took Geralt’s first arm and began redoing the bandages. Usually Geralt found it unnecessary to be tended to like a child when he knew skills like this better than most, but this was proving to be an interesting experiment. He studied Iorveth as he worked, noting the deepening of the small crease visible just beneath the bandana that formed his ever-present scowl. His jaw was set hard and the stark, crooked line of his scar as red and angry as always. When he finished with Geralt’s first arm, he forcibly moved the other arm into place and began dressing it. Geralt just huffed in amusement, not fighting the crude treatment. He was quickly distracted again; this close, Geralt could smell him. Sweat, leather and a woody sort of spice. 

“If you insist on staring,” Iorveth growled low. “I’ll insist on breaking your arm.” 

Geralt almost took the bait, but instead smiled and titled his head slightly. “Don’t like the attention?” 

“You are aggravating.” 

“That wasn’t a no.” 

Iorveth secured the bandage with a swift motion, twisting at the healing flesh as he did so. Geralt hissed a breath in, then chuckled. Pain didn’t bother him, not when it was this close to pleasure. 

“What is it you want, Gwynbleidd?” Iorveth stared at him now, his single green eye defiant but curious. “You’re no fool, and capable of dealing with your wounds yourself.” 

“Yet you came and bandaged them anyway. What should I assume from that? You didn’t bring Dandelion, you closed the cabin door.” 

Iorveth’s upper lip curled in what was a mixture of a snarl and smile. “Oh, look, the witcher sees straight through me.” 

“You’re practiced at avoidance, but it doesn’t work on me.” 

Bristling, Iorveth stood, rolling back onto his heels with the grace of a hunter. He stayed looming over Geralt for a moment, then turned and made toward the door. It seemed that Iorveth would leave, until he hesitated once at the door. He turned back to Geralt, about to say something. His mouth then snapped shut and his jaw tightened. 

“Speechless?” Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Shut up.” 

Rising to his feet, Geralt noticed Iorveth hadn’t picked up his discarded gloves. Iorveth wasn’t a careless man; he would have done it on purpose. If he did leave, those gloves would then provide the ideal excuse to return. Geralt smirked. “Forgetting something?” 

The glance Iorveth gave the gloves betrayed him. Geralt stepped toward him, knowing full well that this was either going to end well or with Iorveth giving him a broken nose, there was no pleasant medium. Iorveth didn’t move to get the gloves, instead staying where he was, back pressed against the door. You shouldn’t corner wild animals, and yet that was exactly what Geralt was doing. 

“What is it you want?” Geralt murmured, closing the space between them. “You can’t seriously think I would believe you came here just to bandage my arms.” He leaned forward slightly, not quite touching any part of Iorveth. He braced himself for whatever may come next –Iorveth may have been mostly predictable this evening, but he was still a dangerous man. Perhaps that was the allure. “Answer me, Iorveth,” Geralt lowered his voice to a hum, not breaking their eye contact. “What do you want?” 

The kiss was delightfully unexpected. With all the goading, Geralt had become convinced he wasn’t going to walk away from this without blood being drawn. It was a desperate sort of kiss, mixed with hunger and no small amount of aggression. Several things happened in rapid succession after that: Iorveth bit down on his bottom lip, _hard_. Two hands collided with Geralt’s chest, shoving him backward. Geralt stumbled with a grunt, his lip throbbing and warm. Iorveth sneered at him, pretending like he wasn’t out of breath. Raising the back of his hand to his mouth, Geralt saw the bandages come away red. He was right after all, it was going to end with blood. 

He expected Iorveth to leave, to open the door and storm out. Iorveth didn’t. He remained where he was, focused on Geralt like a cat who sighted prey. Geralt licked his lip, tasting the salty metal of his blood. He approached Iorveth again, more cautiously, watching for any signs of resistance. Iorveth was pressed against the door, but didn’t make any move to push him away or fight back. Warily, Geralt brought a calloused hand to Iorveth’s unscarred cheek. When Iorveth didn’t struggle in any way, Geralt kissed him. It was almost chaste at first, then deepened as Iorveth reciprocated and tugged him closer. Soon enough Geralt’s tongue was in his mouth and he had Iorveth pinned against the door. In the back of his mind, Geralt became aware of his shock that Iorveth was allowing this. There was a surge of triumph in his chest, intensified by lust as he felt Iorveth groan. 

Iorveth tore the leather strap that kept Geralt’s hair half tied up. He had a hand in Geralt’s hair, nails scratching against his scalp and tugging roughly on the strands. Geralt broke the kiss only to begin trailing sloppy kisses and small bites down Iorveth’s jaw and neck. Leaning into it, Iorveth swore under his breath in Elder Speech. Geralt pulled back, running his tongue over the bite mark that still ached as he regarded Iorveth. He wanted that bandana off. He wanted everything off, but they needed to at least start with the headscarf. Never having seen Iorveth without the covering, Geralt wasn’t going to take it off without permission. In an action that was almost tender, Geralt ran his thumb lightly over the visible section of the scar. Iorveth tensed, searching Geralt’s face for some sort of answer, but didn’t object to the touch. 

“I’ll show you my scars,” Geralt offered quietly. “If you show me yours.” 

Geralt moved aside when Iorveth stepped forward. In the small cabin, there wasn’t anywhere he could go where he was more than half a dozen feet away from Geralt, but he didn’t seem to care. With his back turned to Geralt, he began undoing the bandana. Staying by the door, Geralt waited for some sort of signal, watching curiously. Iorveth’s dark brown hair was flattened from being kept under the material, and he ran his hand through. It nearly reached his shoulders and scruffy from years of abuse, but the sight of the pointed tips of his ears peeking through the strands was nearly endearing. 

“Is this what you wanted, Gwynbleidd?” Iorveth snarled as he faced Geralt. His voice was harsh as ever but Geralt noted it was ever so slightly less forceful. He looked Iorveth in his good eye, refusing to let his gaze linger over the scar. He could see it just outside his focus, the jagged red line and the darker hollow of where an eye once was. “A _human_ did this to me. Thought I was too pretty because I’m an elf.” 

Geralt gave no reply. Instead he removed his tunic, leaving him wearing only his old breeches, the fresh bandages and his medallion. Now Iorveth was studying him. Geralt had barely two inches of skin that wasn’t marred in some sort of way. Whether it was lines of silver or gashes that were now puckered and pink, Geralt’s body was a prime example of the dangers that came with monster hunting. 

Iorveth made no comment as Geralt approached. He resisted somewhat when Geralt slipped both hands around to the back of his neck, gripping his hair. Determined to hold him in place, Geralt was risking being hit again but refused to let go. Both of Iorveth’s hands were pressed against his chest as a warning, but Geralt leaned forward and softly kissed his cheek, just below the scar. Iorveth melted into the touch, tension slipping out of his body. His hands lingered over Geralt’s waist and hips, drawing him closer. After another kiss on the mouth, Geralt pulled back. “You may want to do something about–” He chuckled and gestured to Iorveth’s clothing. “All of that.” 

Grunting an agreement, Iorveth began undoing the buckles and clasps. The progressive shedding of armor wasn’t intended to be pleasing, but there was a certain appeal to the sureness of Iorveth’s movements. He didn’t have Geralt’s horrifying number of scars, but he had an impressive amount nonetheless. He had seen different sorts of combat to Geralt, and his body showed the marks of that misuse. 

When Iorveth wore only his green leggings, Geralt returned to him. His hands slid over Iorveth’s shoulders, lingering over the intricate tattoos then down his arms. Iorveth’s eye closed and a small sigh of contentment escaped him. Geralt had seen Iorveth fight with swords –he was capable, but not talented. No, these were the muscles of an archer, lean and strong. 

“When was the last time you did anything like this?” Geralt asked, monitoring Iorveth’s quiet reaction to the touches. Iorveth’s eye snapped open and focused on him with a frown, making Geralt chuckle. “It’s an observation, not an accusation.” 

After another moment, Iorveth admitted, “Scoia’tael leaders can’t exactly afford indulgences.” Iorveth laughed bitterly, wrinkling his nose as it turned into a snarl. He gripped Geralt’s waist, clawing at the skin. “ _Enough_ ,” Iorveth insisted, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He kissed Geralt, then mumbled against his lips, “Let’s fuck.” 

Geralt chuckled into the kiss that followed. So his hunch had been correct, this was exactly what Iorveth wanted. There was no chance of Geralt objecting; he thrived off the heat, the intimacy, the need. Their touches were slow at first, exploratory and experimental. Their initial lust was developing into something fiercer, something that caused their hands to search with more urgency and their mouths to grow hungry again. 

Geralt subtly guided the impatient Iorveth back, haphazardly picking their way through the armor strewn everywhere until they couldn’t go further. Satisfied where he had him, the backs of Iorveth’s legs were against the small bed, Geralt tugged at the edges of the other man’s leggings. Iorveth stifled a groan. Geralt managed to get them half down before suggesting with a push for Iorveth to sit. He complied, and Geralt removed them fully. Leaning back and propped up on his elbows, Iorveth was entirely unashamed of his nakedness. Geralt leaned against the bed, his fingers digging into Iorveth’s legs. He bent down and began kissing down the inside of Iorveth’s thigh. He kissed and nibbled the progressively more tender skin as he made his way closer to Iorveth’s crotch. He stopped just before he reached there, flashing a grin at Iorveth as he pulled back. Iorveth showed him his teeth in a frustrated growl. He was hard and eager, but Geralt wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction just yet. 

Standing up straight, Geralt began untying his breeches. He stopped as Iorveth surged forward. Seated on the edge of the bed, his knees on either side of Geralt’s legs, Iorveth shooed Geralt’s hands away and began unlacing the fabric himself. He pressed the occasional, damp kiss to Geralt’s lower belly, causing sparks of desire to shoot up Geralt’s spine. Iorveth tugged the breeches open, immediately taking Geralt loosely in his slender hand. He glanced up as he brought his mouth to the head of Geralt’s cock. His tongue slipped torturously slowly over the slit, the corners of that smug mouth turned up slightly with amusement at Geralt’s moan. Iorveth’s attention then turned entirely to his task, the enclosed heat of his mouth progressively taking more and more Geralt. Tight with need and lust, Geralt gripped Iorveth’s hair, guiding him as much as the elf would let him. When Geralt pulled him back fully, whining with the removal of the heat, he did so only because he wanted this to last longer. Iorveth knew, and titled his head as he examined Geralt’s expression. Fingers tucked under Iorveth’s chin, Geralt leant down and kissed him, tasting bitterness on his tongue. 

“Lie down,” Geralt spoke huskily, more of a suggestion than a command. Ordering Iorveth wouldn’t end well. Iorveth complied, not taking his eye off Geralt as he moved to rummage through his pack. Upon finding the vial of oil he sought, he turned back to Iorveth with a wolfish smirk. Iorveth was lying on his back, propped up on one arm, legs stretched out before him and his cock hard against his stomach. Geralt considered him as he sat on the side of the bed, opening the vial. “On your stomach,” he instructed experimentally. Iorveth held his gaze for a moment, that single eye full of defiance and warning. He made a sound of disapproval in the back of his throat, then moved to comply. Geralt understood –Iorveth only submitted because he wanted to, not because Geralt wished it. 

Still sitting on the bed’s edge, he nudged Iorveth’s legs part. Raising his hips in anticipation, Iorveth was breathing hard even before Geralt’s slicked fingers began to explore. Chin rested on the blankets, Iorveth bit his lip in an effort to muffle his groan as Geralt pushed a single finger into him. As the tension began to ease from Iorveth’s body, Geralt added another finger. Iorveth began pushing back then, dispelling Geralt’s initial concern that he was going to hurt Iorveth. Of course he wasn’t –Iorveth probably found pleasure in measurable amounts of pain, just as Geralt did. Geralt wasn’t so gentle now. He wasn’t harsh, but the increased roughness drove Iorveth wild. By the time a third finger was added, Iorveth’s hips were raised and he had broken out in a sweat, his fingers digging into the blankets as he tried to stifle his moans. Geralt was dully aware of the effect Iorveth’s reactions were having on him, the lust becoming too much to bear. 

When he pulled his fingers free, Iorveth growled like a feral cat at being denied release for the time being. “ _Geralt_ ,” he hissed. He never used Geralt’s name. Amused, Geralt knelt on the bed and pulled Iorveth’s hips up. Taking the hint, Iorveth grudgingly pushed himself to his hands and knees. Nudging those knees apart with his own, Geralt slicked himself with the remaining oil. With the treatment he was giving Iorveth before, Geralt pushed inside him easily. Buried to the hilt immediately, he paused. Iorveth, despite his initial sharp intake of breath, pushed against him, urging him to move. Holding his hips in place, Geralt stilled him and began pressing kisses up Iorveth’s spine. They were both desperate to move, but Geralt was nothing if not focused and controlled. Even as Iorveth trembled beneath him, he didn’t give in until he reached the other man’s neck. 

An idea came to him. A sort of revenge. His mouth found its way to the back of Iorveth’s shoulder, the muscles tensed with fervor. Geralt began with a kiss, but quickly sunk his teeth into the skin. Iorveth let out a surprised rumble that rapidly became a hiss. When Geralt drew blood, he released him and pulled back. 

“I suppose I deserve that,” Iorveth huffed under his breath. Geralt could still feel the ache of where Iorveth had broken skin on his lip. 

“You did.” 

Before Iorveth could speak, Geralt moved. A simple out and in was all it took for Iorveth to forget the pain. Geralt rolled his hips again, taking as much pleasure from that as he did from Iorveth’s reactions. After a few more experimental thrusts, Geralt’s hand snaked up Iorveth’s back. He avoided the area where blood was running, instead lacing his fingers in Iorveth’s hair. He pulled on the strands roughly, making Iorveth arch against him. Geralt’s thrusts were harsher now, gaining more speed, urged on by Iorveth’s feral growls. Skin slapped against skin and Geralt refused to release his hold on Iorveth’s hair. Even Geralt’s control was waning at this point, forcing him to slow and regulate his breathing. 

He was impressed Iorveth had lasted this long, in truth. His hand ached as he finally let go of Iorveth’s hair. Iorveth moved from resting on his hands to his elbows, head flopped forward and shoulder blades jutting into the air. Geralt couldn’t see his face, but could hear the ragged, hoarse panting. Geralt stilled once he indulged himself in a handful more thrusts, his hand gliding down Iorveth’s hip. He found the waiting cock, his grip immediately making Iorveth tense and twitch. It barely took two strokes down the engorged length before Iorveth shuddered, a throaty keen escaping him. His forehead was pressed against the bed and he clutched fistfuls of the blankets. He tightened around Geralt, causing the edges of his vision to whiten and heat twisted in his abdomen. 

Geralt was chasing his own orgasm just as Iorveth was finishing. His vision whitened entirely as he was overwhelmed, his body acting on its own. Pleasure shot up his spine as he emptied himself into Iorveth. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that until he recovered. Once came to the realization that it was over and he could move again, it took a bit to convince his body. Iorveth grunted as Geralt pulled out, collapsing onto his side. Geralt joined him, his heart thundering in his chest. It took even more convincing to persuade his body into getting something to clean them up. Retrieving a cloth, he did so to the best of his abilities then returned to the elf. 

The bed was small, their skin stuck together, the air smelled of sex, and yet there was comfort here. The calm _after_ the storm, so to speak. He half expected Iorveth to flee, to gather his clothes and leave Geralt alone in the cabin. Instead, Iorveth remained, his steady breathing loud. Neither of them had said anything: what could be said? Maybe it was because he expected some sort of rebuke or taunt from Iorveth. 

Minutes past in silence. Geralt had begun to doze, his body sated and warmed by the man next to him. That was when Iorveth sat up. Geralt was about to move, to let him past so he could leave, but Iorveth folded his legs and leaned against the cabin wall. Without asking, he took Geralt’s arm and began retying the loosened bandages. When both arms were done, he hesitated. He waited for some sort of sign and found nothing. Accepting it, Iorveth slowly lay back down. If he expected some sort of objection, he found none. 

As they lay together, Geralt noticed something. Iorveth’s blind side was facing him. He couldn’t see Geralt. It was subtle, and undoubtedly intentional. It was a sign of budding trust, no matter how small. 

Iorveth rolled onto his side, making himself comfortable. Just as he did so, the cabin’s door opened without warning. Iorveth tensed, but stayed still with his back to the door. Geralt shot an accusing glower at whoever interrupted, finding a shocked and very entertained Dandelion. Geralt shook his head, warning his friend against whatever was going through his head. Dandelion grinned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Geralt was glaring daggers, but it was when Iorveth moved slightly that Dandelion finally fled. The door slammed closed, and there was an unspoken question hanging in the air between them. Geralt tried vainly to will it away. 

Shifting onto his stomach and resting up on his elbow, Iorveth peered at him. Geralt spoke first. “What happens if your men know?” 

“They won’t care. They won’t dare care,” the violence was back in his voice, though it had a different ring in it. It was no longer directed at Geralt, but others in Geralt’s defense. Possessiveness, he realized. Or, at the very least, there was a measure of it. 

“Imagine what would have happened if Dandelion walked in half an hour ago,” Geralt mused. Iorveth snorted a laugh, but the smile lingered over his mouth, an expression Geralt hadn’t seen before. “You’re full of surprises,” Geralt remarked, raising a hand to tuck loose hair behind Iorveth’s pointed ear. The gesture came a shock even to himself, and he quickly realized neither of them cared. 

Quirking an eyebrow and glancing at the hand by his face, Iorveth lowered his voice, “So are you.” Iorveth took that hand between both of his own, then brought it to his mouth, never breaking eye contact. “You asked this morning, Gwynbleidd, if I respected you.” As Iorveth gently bit Geralt’s palm, Geralt found it wasn’t concerned if Iorveth was going to make him bleed again. “Yes.” 

Geralt brought him down into a kiss, their movements slow and deliberate. Yes. This time, they could take their time. This night was theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Originally I planned this as just a one-shot, but because of the positive reviews and the want for more, I'm currently working on a second part to this (I even have a vague idea of what I would do for a third part, if anyone is interested after I get the next one out) so keep an eye out, and let me know if there's still a want for it!


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